Black and White
by Rune71
Summary: Photographs were black and white before they were in color. The history of the Arcobaleno.
1. Fon

"Brother!" Fon looked back at his little sister, feeling the tug on his sleeve.

"What is it, Yan Mei?" He asked, smiling back at her. Her eyes were wide and pooling with tears.

"Don't leave!" She pleaded. He gave her an apologetic look.

"But I have practice, Yan Mei, and if I don't go my teacher will be angry with me. I'll be back soon, don't worry." She pouted, and Fon ruffled her hair.

"I want to go with you then!" She exclaimed.

Fon laughed. "You're still too little to learn kung fu. Maybe in a couple of years, if mother and father allow it." He caught his father's frown in the background and knew what he suggested was probably never going to happen for her.

"Okay," she said, and Fon walked off, not wanting to be late.

* * *

"Oh, Fon! You did so well!" His mother had discovered one of his old tests in a drawer of his desk, and was gushing over the high score he had gotten.

"Thank you mother," he said politely. It really wasn't a big deal – a bit of studying, and the test had proved to be fairly easy. Then again, it had been that way for as long as he could remember. He tended to analyze situations before committing to anything, and that trait had helped him in his schoolwork. Not so much his social situation, though, but it didn't matter too much, as long as he had his family and his best friend Jin.

"I'm proud of you, son," his father told him and Fon nodded. He was doing well in school, as he always had, and excelling in his martial arts, of which he had advanced a degree just the week previous. He supposed that was the reason for his father's statement. His little sister looked up at him adoringly and he picked her up, though she was getting big enough that it would soon be improper to do so.

"I want to be just like you when I grow up, brother!" She exclaimed, and Fon hid his wince with a smile. She was smart. Very smart, just as he was, but she was also a girl. Girls didn't do martial arts.

"Well then, you should study hard," he said, settling for the statement that would cause the least emotional damage, and poked her cheek with the hand not holding her up. She rubbed her face and frowned lightly at him.

* * *

"Stop it! Help!" Fon heard, and he ran to where the cries were coming from. In an alley – how cliché - two men had a teenager backed up against the side of one of the brick buildings. Fon decided he'd intervene – what would he have been learning kung fu for, if not to empower himself to defend himself and others?

So he dropped his book bag, and walked stupidly into the shadowed alley.

"Hey," he said quietly. The two men and the boy turned towards him. "Stop that."

One of the men, the one with the crooked nose, sneered. "Oh yeah, and who are you to stop us?"

Fon chose to forego answering the man's question. Instead, he dashed in between them and with a kick disarmed the man on the right. Ducking under the other man's knife, he used an elbow to strike the guy's ribs and a strong kick to push him out of the way.

That done, from his still-low position he swept the first man onto his back and stood quickly to send a heel-strike to his ribs. He heard a crack and knew the man was incapacitated. It was good timing, because by then the second man had recovered.

Fon turned quickly, knocking the man out with a kick to the head. It was easier than he had expected, the man must have still been favoring his ribs.

He faced the teen. "Hey, are you all right?" He asked. The person turned.

"Fon?"

"Jin?" The one he'd rescued was his friend and classmate Jin. "What was that all about?" He demanded, angry that his friend had both gotten involved with disreputable people and also that he hadn't been told about it.

Jin scowled. "My business is my own."

"But those guys were serious! You could have been killed!"

"I don't want to - "

"Jin!"

"Fine!" Jin yelled. "Fine. Fine." He looked angry and ashamed. "My parents - they were poor, you know, and they wanted me to have a good education. So they borrowed money from a less than reputable source, and now they're mixed up with some bad people. Now I have to help them get the money."

Fon was bewildered. "Well, why haven't you gone to the authorities?"

Jin gave a bitter laugh. "It doesn't work like that, Fon."

Fon knew that if he pushed the matter, he would not only distance himself from Jin, but that there would be no way to help him thereafter. "Well," Fon said, changing the subject. "Let's get to school."

* * *

"Fon Li. Is this the kid that demolished the both of you?" The man speaking was sitting behind a desk. His dark hair was slicked back and tattoos crawled up his arms and across his neck. His strong build was emphasized in a sleek suit, He was intimidating.

One of the men sitting in front of him nodded hesitantly, not knowing what his confirmation would mean for his immediate future.

"I want you to go track him down. Tell me everything about him. Go."

The two men left, and the boss leaned back in his chair, content.

* * *

Ever since that day, Fon had felt on edge. He was wondering, now, why his usually analytical nature had disappeared just long enough for him to perform his 'heroic' act of saving Jin from those two thugs.

He didn't know what it was other than some prickling sensation, an irritation in the back of his mind. It almost felt like, however much he hoped it wasn't the case, that he was being watched.

* * *

"Fon Li. Seventeen years old, in his second year of high school. Has a younger sister, seven years old. His mother is a housewife, his father an accountant. He has been taking lessons in martial arts since he was five years old. Is in the top ten of his class in school consistently."

"Hmm," the boss said, leaning back in his chair. "Could be a valuable asset. Bring the kid here, and let me talk to him. I don't care how you get him here, just do it. Preferably in one piece."

"Yes, boss."

* * *

"What do you want?" Fon asked suspiciously. When the man in the worn suit had approached him, he had no idea what he'd wanted. But he'd noticed that the man had a bruise near his temple, and a slight bulge in his jacket made Fon suspect he'd been packing a gun. So he went with him. And so he'd ended up standing in front of a well-dressed, rich-looking man in a nice office, two goons behind him.

"Well, after you encountered my two employees a few days ago," the man said, gesturing to the figures at Fon's back, "I took an interest in you and would like to offer you a job." Fon twisted to look at the men behind him. The bruise on the head, the way one was ever so slightly hunched on one side – it was the two thugs who had been intimidating Jin. _Great._

"With all respect, sir," he started as politely as he knew how, not wanting to anger the man but still keeping his voice firm, "I am in school right now and focused on studying. I am not looking for a job at this point in my life."

 _That should do it. Polite, short, and a valid reason to decline his offer._ The man behind the desk smiled menacingly.

"Oh, but I heard it was your dear baby sister's birthday soon. Surely she would love a present from her big brother, paid for by the money he earned at his weekend job?"

Fon kept a cool demeanor. He had learned three important things from the man's statement, one of which terrified him. The first was that the job the man was offering would be weekends only. The second; the man was willing to pay. And third – the man knew about his family. If Fon didn't cooperate, there was no telling what could happen to them.

"What would said job entail?" He asked the boss coolly. The man gave him a repulsive grin.

"Not too much. You'd just be getting us money – we'll enter you into fighting tournaments at a maximum of once every other week. Half of your winnings go to us."

It could be worse. At least it wasn't something ridiculous like becoming a hitman.

"I agree to the deal."

* * *

His parents were a little concerned when he told them that he would be fighting in tournaments, but were proud of him nonetheless.

His sister thought it was exciting and congratulated him. He felt a bit ill.

* * *

After several years, he was contacted by Jin. His classmate had risen in the Triads through a series of suspicious coincidences to a relatively high level – much higher than the thugs that had tried to intimidate him as an impressionable teenager.

"Hey, Fon, you still doing work for the Triads on the side?" Of course he was; once in the Triads, however small the role, it was incredibly difficult to back out. And if he quit they would do something to his family. His normal job also didn't provide – dare he say it – the excitement and stimulation he was starting to grow accustomed to.

"Yes. Why?"

"Well, I got a job for ya. There's a man who wants to meet you, told me he wanted a job done. And everyone knows you're the best." And indeed he was. His time in the tournaments – which he still participated in – had earned him the title of the best martial artist of their time, as fast as his namesake, the wind.

"All right, fine," he agreed.

"Excellent!" Jin exclaimed. "I'll be by tomorrow to give you the details and make sure your current contact knows not to make any rash decisions."

"Thanks. I guess," Fon said, still unsure of his former best friend's intentions.

"No problem. Happy to help an old friend, you know."

* * *

"So, Fon, the guy who wants to borrow you – before you meet him, well, he's a bit strange. Came in with the weirdest checkered clothes." Well. There was no accounting for taste.

"Alright. Let's go."

The two entered the room in which the client was sitting. Fon kept his face schooled in a passive expression, not showing his surprise at the man's odd appearance.

"Ah, Mr. Li, it's nice to meet you. Now, as I'm sure your friend told you, I have a proposition for you..."


	2. Luce

**Disclaimer: I don't own Reborn.**

* * *

Five Years Old

"And how is my little Luce today?" He noticed that there was an odd juxtaposition between the his Boss's job and his current family-man attitude. Mafia bosses weren't particularly known for being kind or loving. But somehow, his boss – the boss of the Giglio Nero – was managing to be both just fine. The small girl giggled in her daddy's arms, chattering away happily about what she'd done that day. It was soon becoming a familiar sight to all the members of the famiglia.

The girl stopped her chattering abruptly and screwed her eyes shut. "Ow..."

Her father looked at her in alarm. "Luce?"

The little girl looked back at the him; standing at his Boss's left shoulder. "I'm sorry," she said. He was surprised; what could the girl possibly mean? He glanced at his Boss, the man looking resigned and a bit anxious.

"What do you mean by that, _principessa_?" He asked, caution coloring his tone.

"I'm sorry you're sad. I was sad when my mommy went away." He drew back, shocked. He hadn't mentioned to anyone that his mother had passed away the day before, yet somehow – somehow, this little girl knew. His Boss turned to him, a desperate fire burning in his eyes.

"Don't tell anyone about this, please," His Boss begged. He was thrown off balance; he had never before seen his Boss looking so vulnerable. "The last thing we need - what she needs – is for people to know about her abilities, especially in this dark world that we live in. You _cannot_ tell _anybody_."

And then the man understood. The small, cheerful, compassionate little girl had a very special ability, one he knew that others in the Mafia could and would kill to obtain. He looked at the girl and squared his shoulders.

"Don't worry," he assured his Boss. "I won't be saying anything." He turned to the girl and gave her a wan smile. "It's okay, _principessa_ , don't worry about me. I'll be alright."

* * *

Six Years Old

"Can I help?" The young girl was perched on a counter in the kitchen, watching the cooks make... something. "What are you making?"

"I'm making ciabatta bread, _principessa_. And unfortunately, I don't think your father would want you to be making a mess of yourself just before supper."

"Oh, but nonna, it looks like so much fun! And it's not nice to make you do it all yourself!" The old woman chuckled.

"Just like your mother, you are, always wanting to help. It's time for supper now, go on, shoo." Luce pouted but knew to follow the woman's directions; her father always looked disappointed when she was late to supper and then she felt sad too.

She went to her room to wash up and change; even though she'd tried so hard to stay clean she'd still gotten flour on the seat of her dress and her hands were all sticky from when she'd pulled herself up onto the counter.

When she deemed herself tidy enough, she meandered down to the room where she and her father usually took supper.

"Sorry, papa, I was getting clean," she said. He smiled at her.

"It's all right, I was only here a minute. How was your day?" Luce immediately launched into an explanation of how her classes had gone and how her English teacher had accidentally spilled her tea in her lap and had had to change her skirt. He hid a smile, positive that Luce's teacher would be absolutely mortified if she learned that he, the Boss, knew of her misfortune.

It was amusing, but not important; the thing that mattered most to him in that moment was the pure joy showing on his daughter's face. He relished these moments, where he could be nothing but a young girl's father, eating dinner with his beautiful daughter.

* * *

Seven Years Old

"It hurts, Papa," she sobbed. "It hurts." He was at a loss. He didn't remember his wife ever getting headaches like that, even though he knew that Luce's powers were inherited from her.

"I'm sorry, sweetheart, Papa's here," he soothed, but it didn't seem to have much of an effect and he was starting to despair. He knew her headaches were somehow connected to her powers, but he didn't know why or how and had no idea how to alleviate them.

It was at least another hour before she cried herself asleep. He didn't know what he could do, and it made him feel helpless. He hated it. And so he steeled himself to go through his late wife's possessions, to find the journal she entrusted to him before he died, that he'd refused to read before.

Remembering his wife hurt; but seeing his daughter in such pain hurt more. It was time.

Eight Years Old

Luce reached up and touched her temple, her eyes growing blank for a minute before she shook her head and returned to the present.

"Headache?" He asked.

She shook her head and gave him a sunny smile. "Nope!" She said. "Just something about candy..."

"That's good," he said. It was unfortunate that his wife's journal had only reassurances and not anything that would actually alleviate the pain. According to what she had written, it was the brain getting used to stimulus outside the norm, and would die down entirely by the time she was ten years old. At the age she was currently, it was only every other time she saw something that she would have a headache, as opposed to when she had been six and it had happened every time. The headaches were decreasing in intensity, as well.

And then what she had said penetrated his worry and he turned towards her, worry about an entirely different subject clouding his thoughts. "Did you say _candy_?"

* * *

Nine Years Old

"How is Angelo doing?" Luce asked, bouncing in her seat as her maths tutor entered the room. Her teacher's son was a very cute toddler, always happy and smiling. She loved the days when Signora Ricci brought him to class, even though it exasperated her father (she tended to rush through her lessons those days in order to get some time playing with him).

"Oh, he's been doing much better since he started taking the medicine," her teacher answered. "How did you know he was sick?"

"I guessed," Luce prevaricated. She'd sensed her teacher's sadness and had been able to determine it was Angelo - he was sick. "I'm so glad," she said, breathing a sigh of relief. "Is he going to come to another lesson soon?" She asked hopefully.

"If he has girls asking about him at two years old, I'd not like to know how it will be when he's a teenager!" She exclaimed, and Luce blushed.

Twelve Years Old

"Papa?" She asked, sitting still despite her utter boredom. He looked up from his papers, glasses halfway down his nose.

"Yes, _principessa_?" He asked. She smiled, it always made her happy when he called her that.

"Am I going to go to Mafia School?"

The faint amusement on his face soured into a frown. "Luce, we have talked about this. You will not be going to Mafia School – at least until you are able to completely control your ability."

"But Papa – !"

"Luce!" She drew back; her father never snapped at her like that. She tried hard, but she couldn't stop her eyes from welling up. How could he ever understand? _He_ had gone to Mafia School, _he_ had had friends his own age, _he_ had gotten to meet new people. Just because she had some weird ability didn't mean she shouldn't get the same opportunities! He didn't know what it was like – her best friends were decades older than her! She just wanted to have friends her own age, was that too much to ask?

She felt a tear escape, tracing a path down her cheek as she tried her best to keep a defiant expression on her face. Her Papa's expression changed immediately, from an expression of combined anger and fear to one of sorrow.

"I am sorry, Luce, _so_ sorry that I have to ask this from you." He got up and walked around the side of his desk towards her. She faced the ground so he wouldn't see her tears, but he knelt in front of her and gently lifted her chin.

"I love you, Luce, always remember that. But I have lost your mother, and I do not want to lose you too. I am afraid," he said, and as he did so Luce could feel that he was telling the truth. "I am afraid what people will do once they find out about this power of yours. So please, trust me."

She saw the pain in her father's eyes and stopped trying to suppress her own tears. "Oh, Papa," she cried, throwing herself into his arms. His arms wrapped around her and he kissed the top of her head.

* * *

Fifteen Years Old

Mafia School was not quite what she had expected it to be. There were some parts she had expected of course; most of the classes were standard. Some were less so, but she had expected those, too – what Mafia School would be complete without lessons in Poisons and Politics and Flames, after all?

There were also things she had not expected. For example; Active Flame users. It wasn't that she hadn't been expecting them, it was just that there were so _many_ of them. And as an Active Sky, she was a target for all those Unbonded. It was such that she was rather cynical of any of the other students claiming to want to be friends, as most of the students were Unbonded. The only others she would consider getting to know on a more personal level were already Bonded or other Skies.

And although she had gotten a handle on her powers – enough so that she wouldn't suddenly become unresponsive in the middle of the day – suppressing visions caused slight headaches, while not nearly as bad as the ones she had gotten as a child, were nonetheless capable of causing her to become noticeably distracted. That, along with slight slip-ups in knowledge (which, thankfully, were contributed to the rumor mill) did not do her any favors in terms of actually getting to know those people that she could trust not to just want a Flame Bond.

The most enjoyable part of Mafia School was, undoubtedly, the formal social aspect. That being, in effect, dinner parties and balls. The school would host dinners according to one's age and grade level, formal events that all students were required to attend, in order to teach etiquette. After all, it wouldn't do for all those Heirs and Heiresses of prominent Mafia famiglias to seem uneducated.

They were, she thought, the most enjoyable part because they required the students to be social with each other and not just their immediate circle of friends and allies. During the dinners she was just another Heiress, not 'that odd Sky with no Bonds'. There was another aspect to them that made them enjoyable as well: the dancing.

She loved to dance.

It didn't matter, really, who her partner was, although it was fun to talk to people her age. It was the _feeling_ , the music, the sheer _fun_ of moving one's body in concert with so many others, of being part of something larger – it was difficult to explain.

She sat down at one of the tables in the library and began to compose a letter to her father.

 _Wonderful Papa..._

* * *

Nineteen Years Old

Luce sat down heavily and glanced around; no one was close, good. She surreptitiously slipped off one of her shoes and rubbed her heel – despite her love for dancing, her feet required a break. She slipped her shoe back on and sighed. She was thirsty, too, and so made her way over to the table with the refreshments.

She picked up a glass, not bothering to check for poison (she was at Mafia School – nobody was thoughtless enough to spike the drinks with anything, for fear of retaliation by both the school administrators and the allies of anyone killed) before wandering to find a less-occupied corner of the room. She found one with just one other person in it – a young man – she didn't recognize him.

"Hello," he greeted, holding up his cup in a show of acknowledgement.

"Hello," she said back, a bit perplexed. He was a Rain, and already Bonded.

"I'm Emilio," he said. "I like dancing, but it's hot and I needed a bit of a break." The non-sequitur confused her more; not many people would explain themselves so frankly to a person they'd never seen before. But the point of the dances was the same as the dinners – to practice etiquette, so –

"It is a pleasure to meet you, Emilio. I am Luce, Heiress to the Giglio Nero famiglia."

He wrinkled his nose and Luce frowned. She knew there were teachers watching them – they were often graded on their ability to show they knew the proper protocols – was he trying to fail?

"You can dispense with the formalities," he said, waving a hand in the air. "I much prefer bluntness."

In that case...

"What is your famiglia?" She asked. She was rather curious; his frankness and seeming disregard for other people's opinions made him interesting and she found herself wanting to know more about him.

"Cavallone. I'm not actually a part of the Family, though, just a ward."

That would actually explain a lot about his attitude. The Cavallone were known to be more lax with rules and etiquette in general. She should have guessed it. She absent-mindedly brought a hand up to massage her temple, attempting to relieve the pressure that was starting to build up – and then realized what she was doing. Her eyes widened. Why couldn't it have happened _before_ she met the man? Now she would have to make up some excuse to leave!

She thought frantically for a moment before her eyes landed on her nearly-empty glass and she fidgeted. His eyes narrowed.

"What are you doing?" He asked. She looked down at the ground, then back up, knowing exactly what to do to get away before she let herself succumb to the vision now pulsing at her temples. It was a strong one – something big.

"Well – it's just – could you excuse me for a moment? I'll be back in a few minutes – you know how it is – " she held up her glass and his expression turned amused.

"Of course, milady," he said, and she tried to walk normally to the doorway leading out into the hall and, by extension, the restroom.

But it wasn't the restroom that she ducked into, but one of the nearby classrooms, which was completely empty at that time of night. She sat down on the floor, back propped up against the wall – the stronger the headache got, the more out of it she would be until the vision passed – and let herself succumb to the pressure in her head.

Colors – blue – Emilio – her father – a pacifier – fire – a car – a limp arm, a trickle of blood – a rainbow – a checkered pattern.

She gasped as she jolted back to reality. Her father she could understand – but why was he accompanied by a images of fire, and death? And Emilio? She was interested in him, she knew that, but only as a person – would he become a friend? She didn't yet understand the rainbow or the pacifier or the checkers, but those didn't seem as clear, nor as immediate.

Her mind turned back to her father. This latest vision, though more fragmented than others she had, was worrying. The fact that images of her father, fire, and a bloody (though not severed) hand in conjunction made her think the worst. She put it firmly out of her mind. That was something that could be revisited after the dance was over.

She stood and brushed the wrinkles out of the skirt of her dress, making her way out of the classroom – first checking the clock. Good, it had only been a couple of minutes.

As she made her way back to the ballroom, her thoughts wandered back to Emilio. She had seen him in her vision. He'd looked – different – like he had gotten a haircut, or had forgotten to shave. He'd had a small smirk on his face, like they were sharing a private joke.

"Everything all right?"

She looked up into Emilio's eyes; apparently her feet had decided to follow her brain and had taken her straight to him. She blushed.

"Yes, fine."

"Good. I was about to send a search party after you, you were gone so long."

Her eyes widened. That was almost... rude. But, she had to admit, it was funny in its own way.

"Well, I'm sorry you felt that way. Maybe you should be the one in a corset and ball gown, and see how long it takes you." The banter felt almost natural, fun.

He raised an eyebrow. "Sky Humor? That's rather rare."

They continued to talk, until they announced the last dance of the evening. Emilio held out his hand to her.

"Would you like to dance?" She accepted his offer and they danced. True to his word, he was a wonderful dancer.

* * *

Twenty-One Years Old

"Emilio – what – " she gasped. She had walked into her father's study, hoping to ask him about Signor Necci's retirement – but Emilio was there – he had a gun – her father was slumped in his chair – his hand – it was limp, hanging over the edge of his desk, a trickle of blood slowly making his way down his finger to drip on the floor.

Matching exactly the image of her vision two years ago, in that classroom, at the ball where she met Emilio.

Emilio, who was holding a gun. Emilio, who was giving her that smirk. The one she had seen.

"Emilio?" She tried again, voice breaking in the middle of his name.

"Didn't meant for you to see that," he told her conversationally, that awful smirk still on his face. "But, well. Nothing I can do about it now."

He turned towards her, raising his gun, and shot. She could see it, the bullet, coated in blue Rain Flames – flames which splashed harmlessly against the wall of orange fire that erupted in front of her, also deflecting the bullet with a small ping.

The Flame Shield lowered at the same time he lowered the gun. He scowled and bolted, pushing past her, but her gaze was fixed on her father. She ran to the desk, shaking her father's shoulder. No response.

"Papa! _Papa_!" She was still shaking his shoulder, harder now, though his body was already starting to cool. "Papa, wake up!"

One of the butlers entered then, having heard her cries, and pulled her away. He pushed her father upright and she could see the expression on his face. Her papa was pale; his eyes were wide and shocked, his mouth still slightly open.

She turned, hot tears coursing down her cheeks and staining her face, but she didn't care. Her Papa was dead.

* * *

Twenty-Two Years Old

"Donna Luce! Donna Luce!"

She surfaced from her momentary vision – glimpses of a black-and-white checkered pattern had been appearing more and more frequently – and looked up.

"Yes, Bianca?" The girl was the newest member of her staff, currently in charge of handling appointments with non-allied mafiosi.

"There's a man here – he's wearing a iron hat and some odd checkered jacket." Luce snapped all her attention on Bianca.

"Checkered?"

"Yes, ma'am, checkered. Black and white."

"Bring him up."

It was only a few moments later that the man entered her office. As soon as she saw him, there was a rush of images, memories, knowledge, that flooded her mind.

"Do you know what we must do?" He asked her, the pattern on his coat the exact same that she'd seen all those times. And she knew more about him, then, and about their shared pasts, and the future.

"I do."

* * *

 **A/N: For a long time I wasn't really sure how to write this. I'm still not sure that it's what I want it to be, but for now it's good enough.**


	3. Reborn

**Disclaimer: I don't own Reborn.**

* * *

He was born as a product of a night between a Mafioso and a prostitute. He didn't know why he was allowed to live, but he did; handed to an orphanage at just a few months old. He liked to think that his mother didn't want to give him up, but he wasn't nearly naïve enough to believe that.

It wasn't awful; at least, no worse than anything the other kids his age were facing. At least he had a somewhat reliable source of food. None of the children were really willing to be friends with each other. It was something he learned at a young age, because it went beyond companionship and into survival. The stronger and smarter you were, the closer your spot in the food line was, which meant you got better food. Being strong and smart also meant better choices for clothes and beds. Nobody made friends for fear of getting betrayed or taken advantage of. At least with the smarter kids – some of the dumber ones never learned, and they quickly got taken advantage of. Renato wasn't like that; no, he was smart. Much smarter than the others. And when he was seven years old he knew that he had to leave.

After six years at the orphanage he was getting big enough that his chances of adoption were next to nothing, and that he was among the biggest kids there. At that point the adults there would start sending dirty looks at mealtimes and such, as each child took up resources and they didn't need older, useless kids there. If a kid got old enough, they'd disappear – probably given away or sold into an apprenticeship or something. The first time Renato caught one of those looks he was out the next morning.

His time on the street was rough, but his intelligence allowed him to quickly learn everything he needed to in order to survive. Food, shelter, and clothing were the most important. Food he could get by stealing, most of the time – he only got caught once but an older kid caused a distraction and Renato was able to run. When he couldn't steal food, he bought it with money he'd gotten from slide-hand things, like card games or pickpocketing.

Fighting, of course, was a necessary as well. If you had stuff, you protected it. If you were picked on, you protected yourself. Otherwise, you might just land yourself in a ditch somewhere. Renato was also smart enough to realize not learning to fight would be dumb, so he learned. He got an Asian-looking teenager to teach him. After hearing stories of these crazy martial arts, he wanted to learn, so he tracked down the guy he remembered from the orphanage and pestered him until he gave in. His skill grew quickly, and Renato admitted to himself that occasionally interacting with people positively might not be a terrible idea.

Another one of the things he learned was alliances. And as he had already realized, they were a necessary evil. It was a harsh world, and sometimes it was impossible to get everything he needed by himself. And sometimes he'd join small groups of kids, two or three, and they'd run tricks together. One would be the pleading younger sibling, one might be a lost child looking for parents – you name it, he'd done it. And it almost always worked.

As soon as the older kid in the group started getting bossy, which inevitably always happened, he would leave. Renato valued his independence fiercely – it was one thing nobody could take from him. It was his, and his alone.

And thus he lived, until shortly after his thirteenth birthday.

He was in the process of liberating the contents of a man's pocket. He dipped his hand in, only to feel a vice-like grip tightening around his wrist. He glared up at the man, fruitlessly trying to tug his arm away. He even tried a couple escape moves, but they didn't work. And to make it worse, somehow his arm had suddenly gone completely numb.

"Let go, old man," he ground out. The man smiled.

"You've got fire, kid," the man said. "What's your name?"

Renato knew the man wasn't going to let him go anytime soon if the way he was ignoring the glares from passersby was any indication, so he decided to play along. "Renato Sinclair," he said simply.

"Good name," the man muttered pensively. More clearly, he said, "My name is Stefano Alessi. You may call me Mr. Alessi. If I let you go, will you agree to work for me?"

Renato thought a moment. "It depends on what I'd be doing," he answered warily. "And what I'd get out of it."

The man gave him an approving nod. "Food, board, and education. As for what you'll be doing? For the foreseeable future, helping out a spy, gathering information at certain events. That is, if you decide to work with me."

After a long moment of contemplation, Renato gave a sharp nod and the iron grip around his wrist loosened.

"Let's go," the man said, turning around, and Renato followed.

* * *

After one year working for Alessi, Renato's academic knowledge was approaching that of a mid-high school student. Alessi was amazed at his progress; the man looked surprised every time he checked on him. Renato scoffed, you'd think the man would stop looking surprised after the fifth time he exceeded expectations. It was true, he was going through school material in a much shorter time than it was usually taught, but he was smart. He'd always been smart. He wasn't going to become stupid just because he was able to relax a bit.

So he was fourteen and was at the education level of any normal boy his age. Pretty impressive for a boy who'd only known his letters and basic arithmetic just a year prior.

His practical knowledge had also grown immensely. Due to Alessi's position and the unique nature of Renato's assistance, the whole world of the Mafia had opened up to him. Of course, he'd had to swear omertà, but it was completely worth it for the knowledge he'd gained.

Deathperation Flames were extremely interesting to him. As soon as he'd heard about them, he'd looked them up, only to find nothing. Not in any of the public libraries, at least, or in any of Alessi's books. He'd had to get someone outside of Alessi's circle to explain them to him – some guy named Visconti he'd met when Alessi was sucking up to another famiglia– and was pleased to realize he had Sun flames. The man had helped him unlock his flames in exchange for a few bits of information on Alessi's more dubious ventures; Renato was happy to provide.

And around that time Renato had realized why Alessi had chosen to allow him to be his assistant that day on the street. Over the past year, Renato had realized that he had been blessed with an uncommonly gifted mind and body. He knew he was smart, of course, but he had already surpassed the man's two other trainees even though they had both been training longer than he had. The man had seen potential in him, and had wanted to harness it for himself.

However, Renato's previous experiences had instilled in him a dislike for authority, as well as a conflicting respect for those stronger than himself. What that spelled out was a reluctance to let Alessi dictate what occurred in his life. As soon as he turned sixteen, he'd be out of there.

* * *

He was prepared. He'd gathered all the cash he'd saved from the allowance Mr. Alessi had given him over the years. He had his own gun, and a decent supply of ammunition. Food wasn't something he could stock up on without Alessi getting suspicious, but he needed to get out from under the man's thumb if he ever wanted to make something of himself.

Under the cover of darkness, early in the morning, he left the place he'd spent the last three years of his life. It was fairly easy – all he'd had to do was nod at the guards and say the word 'mission' and they'd let him through. A note had been left on his bed for Alessi to read, stating his thanks and farewell.

He made his way into town, borrowing one of Alessi's motorcycles, and made his way to one of the bars that was a regular haunt of many freelancers of the underworld. It was a great place to get jobs, and it was time that he started making a name for himself.

He was already hailed as a genius in some circles. Thanks to Alessi's promise of education, in the last year he'd managed to get two different degrees – a Bachelor's degree in Mathematic's and an Associate's in Languages – specifically English. Not bad for a teenager.

It was difficult getting jobs. Not many people wanted to hire a teenager, no matter how much of a genius he was supposed to be. But each job he was hired for he completed to the best of his ability, efficiently and quickly. Gradually, he was building up a reputation.

* * *

It was his eighteenth birthday and he bought himself a drink to celebrate. He thought of all he'd accomplished since his departure from Signore Alessi's employ. He'd have to thank the man for getting him started on education; it had woken in Renato an insatiable desire of knowledge. It was not necessarily a bad thing, however; since then he'd managed to get a Master's degree in Mathematics, and another Associate's in Language, this time in Chinese, paying his way through classes with money he'd gotten from hits and other jobs he'd taken.

He noticed a girl; one of the waitresses, glancing at him out of the corner of his eye, but didn't really react – he'd just gotten out of a several-month relationship with a girl who was rather attractive, but unaware of what he did for a living and also quite clingy. He wasn't in a hurry to repeat that, though he wouldn't object to some fun a little later on. She turned, and he noticed the back of her shirt had a bird printed on it; reminding him of his last mission.

His previous target had been a member of the Italian Bird-Watching society, so he'd crashed a meeting in his observation. It had been rather interesting – he'd gotten to see a Saker Falcon, which was an endangered species. They were really beautiful birds; fierce but so graceful in flight. So, of course, he joined.

He'd also found a very nice hat on one of his missions. He'd bought it immediately.

* * *

At twenty years old, he'd become nearly fluent in English and Chinese, and Japanese and German were next on his list.

Just a few weeks ago he had discovered the miracle that was espresso; the bitter drink was particularly helpful in keeping him awake and alert during surveillance missions. Who said caffeine was bad for you?

On a side note, he'd found a chameleon on one of his missions. He'd gotten endless amusement in watching it walk, the awkward waddle reminding him of a toddler who'd just learned to totter around. He'd brought it home and it was residing in a terrarium in his bedroom, a sticker reading ' _Leon_ ' stuck to the front of it. It was a bit oddly shaped for a chameleon, but, well, since when had anything in his life been ordinary?

There was a bit of a snag with the landlord, but after a short talk (Renato may or may not have been polishing his gun while the discussion took place), Leon sitting firmly on the brim of his much-loved fedora, the landlord agreed to Renato's point of view.

And speaking of his gun, his skill with firearms had become nearly unparalleled, his shooting accuracy time under a second. It had taken long, hard hours of practice to get to that point, hours spent out in the middle of the woods in a clearing or at an actual range (which didn't happen as frequently – he didn't like people watching him practice, it would hurt his reputation as a flawless being). His hand-to-hand combat skills were nothing to scoff at, either.

* * *

After several more years, he had finally gained the title of 'Number One Hitman'. It was a culmination of all his hard work. He had become fluent in over five different languages, had amassed a small fortune, and had improved his skills to the point that he was virtually uncontested as the best.

During that time he had entered into a tentative alliance with Vongola Nono. On his first trip to the man's office, he'd paused in the doorway, chuckled, and greeted the decade-older Visconti with a smile. The older man had smiled as well and nodded at him. It was a good alliance - advantageous to both sides, and he was able to retain his freedom of choice, so he allowed it.

He was in one of the various places he haunted around the city when he was approached by a stranger. The man wore an odd hat, made of iron, and was sporting numerous articles of clothing with a checkered pattern.

The man sat down just a seat away from him. "I have a proposition for you," he said.

* * *

 **A/N: Reborn is really a tricky character. He has an obviously inflated self-opinion, but most of that is based in the fact that he has the skills to back it up. And he's so _random_ \- seriously, bird-watching? (that's canon, by the way).**


	4. Verde

**Disclaimer: I don't own Reborn.**

* * *

"Who are _you_?"

"I'm Wilhelm," he said, looking curiously up at the older boy. "Why?"

"I just wanted to know the name of the little punk who thought he was smart enough to make it with the big boys," the older boy sneered nastily. Wilhelm realized what was happening and backed up but not quickly enough; the boy had grabbed his arm before he knew what had happened and was dragging him towards the bathroom.

He kicked and fought, not succeeding, until finally he did – with a loud clatter, he knocked over a portable art stand. The boy let go of him, not wanting to be caught underneath it, but Wilhelm had no such luck. The stand fell on top of him – thankfully, it was not very heavy and the only thing on it had been a small bowl of green paint. Unfortunately, however, the paint had landed directly on top of his head, soaking into his hair and dripping down his face.

The stand had probably bruised his shoulder, which hurt, but he thought the greater damage was to his shirt. With the paint dripping onto it, it was ruined.

He heard laughter. It was that older boy. "Green!" The Boy chortled. Yes, of course he was green. A bowl of green paint fell on him.

"What's your name again?" The Boy asked, eyes narrowed. Wilhelm wasn't stupid enough to think that he'd forgot it; oh no, it was the Boy making a power play.

"Wilhelm," he said anyways, knowing that compliance would end the whole thing sooner.

"Wilhelm," The Boy spat. "What a stupid name. I think you look a lot more like a... Verde." The Boy smiled, thinking himself clever. Oh yes, very clever, using another word for 'green'. Very smart.

What a pain. He had become a figurehead of public humiliation on his first day of school. He should have expected it, really – an eleven-year-old in a class of fifteen and fourteen-year-olds was bound to create some waves. He just wasn't able to anticipate the more visible effects of said waves.

* * *

"Look! It's Verde!" Someone yelled. Not The Boy. One of his friends, perhaps. Possibly a student entirely unconnected. It had been several weeks since the incident, after all. It was likely the whole school knew about it at this point.

He didn't care. He was at school for an education. Not for making friends. Even if he did have an inclination to make friends, he doubted that he would; the other kids his age weren't interesting and those older than him looked down on him.

That name, though, Verde – it was starting to grow on him. It set him apart from the other students. He might just do something about it.

* * *

"Hello." He looked up at the girl who had plopped down next to him in the library. It was a new student – at least, a student he hadn't met before. That was, however, at least half of the school. But she looked younger than the average first-year – perhaps she had skipped a grade or two as well?

"Hello," he greeted back. His mother had drilled manners into him, though he rarely interacted with anyone besides his teachers enough to warrant manners.

"I'm new here," she said. "I noticed your hair right away, and I thought it was really cool, so I came over to talk to you."

Of course she noticed his hair. He'd dyed it green, to match his nickname, and he rather liked it. If he was going to be singled out for his age and intelligence, well then, he was going to give them something else to single him out with as well. Apparently, though, new students were going to be irritating about it. He would have to nip it in the bud – he didn't have time nor the inclination to make friends.

"That's nice. We've exchanged words, which is what talking is, so now that you've accomplished your goal you can leave." He glanced up for a moment from his book and noticed the wide eyes and the hurt there, and felt slightly guilty. He quashed it, though. As soon as she realized he wasn't in the primary school but the high school, her attitude towards him would change. Might as well have it be over and done with.

"Maybe... we're the same age, right? I didn't understand what the math teacher was explaining today... " So she was trying another approach. Yes, they were the same age. But, as a new first-year, she was doing the most basic math classes that the school had available. He was in the most advanced class.

"I have no idea what the math teacher told you." He replied curtly.

"So – you don't get what the teacher was saying, either?" She asked, sounding confused. He sighed and started explaining.

"We may be the same age, but this is my last year here. Whatever class you're taking, I took _years_ ago. I don't know what the teacher told you because I am in a different math class. If that's all, I can't help you, so goodbye." He gathered his books – it was a shame, he'd had them in the perfect arrangement and all open to the corresponding pages – and left, leaving the speechless girl behind.

* * *

"Our son is so smart!" His father exclaimed, hugging him close. So smart indeed. He preferred the word 'intelligent'. 'Smart' just sounded... it was a layman's word.

His mother, on the other hand – he was sure that she was the one who had provided the genetic material contributing to the development of his brain. She watched him with a critical eye. She always had, really, and as his father hugged his pre-teen son in his graduation robes she just smiled and congratulated him on his hard work. _She_ understood.

It had been hard work, graduating, considering that he was six years younger than the average graduate. His father praised his 'smarts', but his mother realized – probably from experience – that it had been hard work to do so. Yes, he was uncommonly gifted, but that didn't mean he automatically had knowledge available to him. He'd had to work for it, studying for long hours every day.

He rolled his eyes and his mother smiled. He wondered, as he often did, what his mother saw in his father. She was intelligent, he was... not.

It didn't matter. What mattered, now, was university.

* * *

Of course, the other university students were constantly sending him sidelong glances. At least his green hair didn't stand out as much; there were a number of other students with odd-colored hair.

Especially in his mechanical engineering classes. Of course, thirteen-year-olds weren't expected to create fully functional – not to mention practical – machines, let alone military-grade technology. So what. He had never been one to lay low. Machines were his area of expertise, and he wasn't about to let some college kids intimidate him into giving up his hard work.

* * *

College graduation was, if possible, even more boring than high school graduation had been. He was sixteen – the age where excess energy manifested itself in a need for him to be constantly tinkering with his projects, and to have that taken away for hours while people gave dull speeches was not his idea of exciting.

He did see his parents again, though – it was nice to be able to converse with his mother, although his father was as hopeless as ever – and they chatted about his plans for work. As a sixteen-year-old, he wasn't old enough to work legally in most of the areas he was interested in without special provision from the government.

Fortunately, however, he had gotten that special provision and had a job lined up with an military base in Italy.

* * *

Italy was, in a word, interesting. Not interesting in the sense that he went around exploring the food and the history, but interesting in the sense that there was an entire illegal community willing to pay him to experiment with technology.

And Flames.

Dying Will Flames opened up an entirely new branch of study, a branch only superficially explored in previous years due to a lack of scientists present in the Mafia. But to think – an entirely new field of study! And entirely new energy source! Even if they weren't paying him such a staggering sum – enough that he would have a retirement fund by the time he was thirty – he would still study it.

It was amazing, the things Flames could do. Harnessing the inherent power of the human body, the human mind - well. The research applying this energy source to mechanics was what he had been looking for all along. It gave his life a solid purpose.

And the one who had introduced him to the world of Mafia and Dying Will Flames. He remembered that day.

He had met him at an a technology exposition. The man was odder than even he; he was wearing a checkered jacket and a metal hat. Verde almost took him for insane, but then caught the glimpse of intelligence in those shadowed eyes.

The man had motioned for Verde to follow him, and he had; weaving in and out of the crowd of people to keep the man in his sight. They had made it into the far-less-crowded hallway.

"I have heard about you from many people, Verde," the man had said. "I have come with a proposition for you."

* * *

 **A/N: I felt like it was way too easy to write from Verde's point of view. I don't know if that's a good or a bad thing.**


	5. Lal Mirch

**Disclaimer: I don't own Reborn.**

* * *

Lal woke up to the smell of pancakes. She often woke up to the smell of food; both her nonna and nonno got up early but she didn't. What was unusual, though, was that it was clearly _pancakes_ that she was smelling. That could only mean one thing.

She threw off her covers and rushed down the stairs, running full-tilt into the kitchen. Sure enough –

"Papà! You're back!" She flung herself forward and wrapped her arms around his waist as tight as she could.

"Good morning, Lal," she heard. "Want a pancake?"

"Uh-huh," she answered, but she didn't let go.

"Come on, Lal, you don't want burnt pancakes, do you?" She finally let go. He flipped the pancake onto a tack of finished ones, then turned around to look at her.

He widened his eyes comically as he took in her appearance.

"What a ruffian! I could have sworn my Lal was neater than this..." She laughed.

"Okay, okay, I'll go get ready first." She ran back upstairs and rushed through brushing her teeth and hair and getting dressed.

When she got back downstairs, her dad raised an eyebrow.

"That was awfully fast."

She grinned unrepentantly.

* * *

She was nine years old the first time she went to the base with her dad and saw people fighting.

"Woah," she breathed, wide-eyed. Her dad chuckled. "I want to do that!"

* * *

"I have to sign up for an after-school sport?"

"Yes, sweetie," her nonna said. "You don't have to choose the same sport every year, and you don't have to do more than one sport per year, but now that you're in middle school you should join a school sports team."

"So, then, it's not a school requirement?" She asked.

"No."

Now she was confused.

"I'm already in martial arts classes, and I have a fitness class at school – so why the sports?" Her nonno was starting to look a little annoyed, so she hurriedly backed up. "I mean – I'll do it, I'm just confused as to _why_."

Her nonna was the one who answered. "Well, we think it will be a good way for you to make friends, especially since practices for fall sports start a couple of weeks before classes do."

 _Oh_.

"...Do you know what the different options are?"

"There's football, volleyball, tennis, and swimming."

Lal's frown got successively more pronounced as the list grew larger. Football was full of drama, she was no good at volleyball, the tennis uniforms included a skirt, and as for swimming – chlorine made her feel sick.

"Is that all of them?"

"No – there's cross-country running, too, but not a lot of kids – "

"I'll do that."

Her nonna and nonno looked at each other uncertainly. "All right, then."

* * *

She really wanted that ten. It would, in all actuality, if achieved, ensure that her end-of-year grade was a ten as well, the highest grade possible. And she really, _really_ wanted that. After all, what was the point of studying all those hours only to get a bad grade?

Lal knew she was smart – she got better grades than a good half of the class without studying at all, and when she did study, her position only went up. It was a matter of fact, not one that she advertised, just something she accepted.

It was a good thing, too, as L'Accademia Navale only accepted the best students. It was hard to get in without good grades – actually, it was near impossible – as well as involvement in extracurriculars (when she read that, she was extremely grateful to her grandparents for their not-so-subtle encouragement to participate in after-school sports).

She waited with baited breath as the teacher went around, handing out the graded exam sheets. He stood in front of her desk for a moment, rifling through the stack of papers in his hand.

"Signorina Mirch, well done, as usual," he said, before placing the sheet on her desk and moving to the next student. She fought down the smile threatening to split her face as her eyes caught the small '10' scribbled at the top corner of the paper.

* * *

"Mail's here," her father announced as he caught sight of her, still in her pajamas. He gave her the same smile she remembered from her childhood, though the face around it was a bit more wrinkled and his hair contained a tad bit more gray. "There's something in here for you, from a..." he glanced at the letter. "A Signor Ruggero."

"Papà!" She protested. He was just being ridiculous, of course – the only Ruggero she was aware of was a boy she had talked to once for a group project at school, and she was highly doubtful that he would ever write her a letter.

Her father chuckled and gestured to the chair across from him, waiting until she sat down to hand her the letter.

It was, indeed, from a Sig. Ruggero – but her father had conveniently failed to mention that the Sig. Ruggero was a representative from _L'Accademia Navale_. She stared at her father wide-eyed, who nodded to the letter.

"Open it," he said.

Her hands were shaking. She slipped her finger under the flap of the envelope and slid it open, disregarding any paper cut it might cause. She pulled out the letter and scanned it quickly – _blah, blah, blah, we look forward to_ \- wait, what? _We look forward to your attendance._ She'd been accepted!

"Yes!" She shouted, loud enough to wake her grandparents, who just moments later stuck rumpled heads out of their bedroom door and blinked blearily at her. She smiled sheepishly.

* * *

The Academy was, in a word, tough. But despite all the work – homework, classes, exacting physical fitness requirements – she was thriving. Her father had prepared her well – she knew her no-nonsense, hardworking attitude was something the teachers appreciated, especially compared to some of the others in her year.

As long as she kept it up, she would do fine.

* * *

"What do you want, recruit?" She glared at the cheerful blond man. He grinned at her in response.

"See, that's the question, isn't it?" She turned away. The idiot had been following her around in what little free time he had, and she couldn't decide whether or not it was disturbing or amusing. The other instructors seemed to think it was amusing, but she was leaning towards disturbing – how did he keep finding her? The complex wasn't small.

He sped up a little until they were side-by-side instead of him being behind her. "All right, fine, you got me. I'm behind a little in my marksmanship – got any tips?"

She frowned. He'd seemed competent all the times when he'd been in a class she was teaching, but then again all people had their strengths and weaknesses. "Sure. What are you having problems with – the bigger guns, smaller ones, automatic, manual?"

"Uh – all of them?"

That actually sounded like he was doing something seriously wrong. Either that, or he'd somehow tricked his physical examiner and was actually terribly short-sighted. She sighed.

"Well, come on then – I'll need to see your form until we get it sorted out." She paused. "What's your name, anyhow?"

The stupid grin came back before he replied. "I'm Colonello."

* * *

"...and Papà, there's this one recruit that _won't leave me alone_!" Her father chuckled on the other end of the line.

"A troublesome recruit, huh? How has that been?" Lal rolled her eyes, thinking back on all the strange incidents.

"Yesterday, he replaced a few of the guns with _water_ guns. He got cleaning duty for quite a while, but I don't think he even cares. And he keeps following me, and he asked me for tips on improving his marksmanship but he's seriously the best one in his class. Just – _why_?"

Her father laughed again, this time for longer, also joined by her nonna and nonno.

"What's the young man's name, Lal?"

"It's Colonello."

"Colonello? I remember his father – we were in the same squad together for years! What a coincidence!"

For some strange reason, she felt a deep sense of foreboding.

* * *

"What do want, Colonello?" She asked, exasperated. She had finally finished her last class of the day and really just wanted some downtime before reporting to the mess for dinner.

"That's the question, isn't it?" He answered, falling into step with her. He took her hand and she stopped. He looked dead serious, no hint of his usual grin present on his face. Her heart beat a little faster.

"Colonello?"

"You asked me a question... this is my answer."

And he kissed her.

* * *

All throughout dinner she was unable to look up from her plate. Any time she did her eyes would naturally be drawn to Colonello's shock of blond hair, easily distinguishable from the mostly black and brown heads around him. That, in turn, would remind her of when he'd pulled her aside that afternoon and, well, there wasn't much she could say about that, especially since the blood that rushed to her cheeks basically told the story for her.

* * *

"Instructor Lal Mirch, please report to the administrative office, Instructor Lal Mirch, please report," came over the walkie-talkie.

"Roger that," she replied, and headed off.

"Instructor Lal Mirch, reporting, sir," she said when she reached the front desk.

"Right," the man said. "You've got a visitor. Weird-lookin' guy, be careful."

"Got it," she replied, brows furrowed. That was really odd. But then again, she thought as she caught sight of the visitor, so was he. The visitor was wearing a checker-patterned jacket and some gray trousers, along with – was that a metal hat? What a nutter.

"Excuse me, sir," she said. "I'm Lal Mirch – you wanted to speak with me?"

He looked up at her and she frowned. There was something about him that she didn't like, but she couldn't put her finger on it. He smiled.

"Oh, yes," he said. "I've got a job offer for you."

* * *

 **A/N: Lal is awkwardness when Colonello comes into the picture. It's great.**


	6. Viper

**Disclaimer: I don't own Reborn.**

* * *

It was cold. Alexei's breath plumed out in small puffs around his mouth, and he drew his thin coat closer around himself. It was at times like this that he wished his parents were still alive; maybe if they were he could look forward to a warm fire and a cup of hot cocoa instead of the drafty orphanage.

He shivered. He felt a sting on his cheek and looked up. Drat, it was starting to hail again.

He started running, ducking under whatever cover he could to avoid the small hailstones falling from the sky. It was a good thing that the school was so close to the orphanage. The hail would start getting bigger soon – it always did – and he didn't want to have bruises.

Only a couple minutes later, he made it through the door and straightaway headed to one of the empty storerooms. He sat down in the corner behind the door – there was less of a chance someone would discover him that way – and flicked his fingers, bringing his indigo fire to life. He sighed in satisfaction as it began to thaw his frozen fingers.

* * *

"Excuse me, sir, I- I think you've got the wrong person!" Alexei said, trying and failing to keep the fear out of his voice.

The man leered at him and shook him by the arm. "Not a chance, kid, I think I've got you alright."

Alexei though furiously. What could he do? He was only an eight-year-old boy, and a small one at that – the shortest eight-year-old at the orphanage. There was his fire, but that never hurt anybody... if only he had a weapon, maybe then the man would back off.

He looked around desperately, and nearly gasped when he saw a glint in the snow near his foot. He pretended to trip and grabbed at it, hiding a wince when the man looked down to scowl at him. The man looked back up, and Alexei examined his prize. It was a rather large knife, which had cut one of his fingers as he picked it up. Thankfully, it wasn't too deep and he was able to grasp the handle firmly.

I had an odd purplish sheen to it, a color that seemed familiar but he couldn't quite figure out why. But – the man was starting to drag him along with him, and there was no way Alexei was going to let him do that. He'd heard stories of what happened to kids like him.

Gathering up his courage, he tightened his grip on the knife. The man was, thankfully, dragging him in the general direction of the orphanage – they were only a couple of streets away. If he stayed with the man another twenty feet or so, they would reach the same street the orphanage was on and he would only have to run a block before he was safe.

Fifteen feet now... ten... five...his breath came faster, more frequent and smaller puffs of white appearing in front of his face. As soon as they started to cross the street, he took his chance. He buried the knife in the man's arm and bolted.

There was an anguished yell, but there was no way Alexei was going to stick around, and looking back would cost him precious seconds. He did, however, hear a few staggering footsteps – and then screeching tires, a sickening thud, and then silence. The footsteps had stopped.

He looked back – just for a second, if the footsteps had stopped the man wasn't coming to get him – and almost made himself sick. The man's twisted body was laying on the street in front of a car, blood staining the snow around him red.

Alexei turned and ran.

* * *

He woke early. It was rather unfortunate, as the temperature was barely above zero even in the shelter of the walls. The winter's temperatures were only surpassed by those of the winter a few years previous, the one in which he'd killed that man.

He climbed out of his bed, everyone else still asleep. At least he'd get the bathroom to himself.

After he relieved himself he washed his hands and then his face at one of the sinks among the long row of them on the wall.

He examined his reflection. His cheekbones stood out, but not in a good way, showing a gauntness of face due to the lack of food. It wasn't the orphanage's fault though. Even after so many years they were still barely afloat.

He sighed. If only he had money; then he'd be able to get more food and quality clothes and blankets. He'd even tried to get a job, but when people saw his age and size he'd been rejected by all of them.

Despite that, though, there were odd things that kept popping up. He knew about his flames, of course, but there was something about them that he was on the verge of discovering, he could just _feel_ it. They weren't just flames – he knew that for a fact – after all, flames weren't normally indigo-colored, and most flames didn't come out of people's bodies. But they were warm, and had saved him from freezing to death more than once.

The _really_ odd thing, though, was the objects that he kept finding. That knife, so many years ago. The nearly-untouched loaf of bread on that wall he'd found, when the orphanage ran short on food. The bottle of bluish medicine when so many of the other children got sick. It was always something that he really needed, exactly when he really needed it. And so far as he knew, it was only him that it happened to.

What was it? Why? Did it... did it have something to do with his other special skill? His flame? After all, both the knife and the medicine were a bluish purple, the same color as his flame. Was this what he had been missing?

"Alexei – what are you doing?" He whipped around, noticing that one of the other boys had awoken.

"Oh – just washing up. Have to have clean hands for breakfast, right?"

He walked into the main room, collected a bowl of some sort of grain mush, and started eating mechanically, still lost in thought.

Did his flames... have the power to create?

* * *

So, he'd finally gotten a job. It was more than a little unappealing – but who knew working for some quack psychic paid so well? And with his flame's abilities, he drew in more than a few customers. But he hadn't learned much of the actual psychic stuff. Maybe he'd do that later?

His boss did say that he showed promise, though – something about "not having sensed anyone with such great potential to see" or some such nonsense. Just because he had flame powers didn't mean he was going to be a great psychic. What did psychics do, anyways? Tell fortunes? There was no way that was useful in the real world.

* * *

As it turned out, being psychic did have practical uses. Investing money was one. Finding people was another. And with the material aspects of his flames, it was possible to rack up a pretty large fortune pretty quickly. There was the necessary expenditures, of course – he didn't know how his body reacted to flame-conjured food, for one, and of course he was making an anonymous donation to the orphanage each month, but his money was growing rather quickly.

His abilities made him a rather accomplished bounty hunter. It was challenging, it was risky, and it was _fun_. Not to mention he got a code name. What more could he ask for? The clients, though...

"You've got a bounty for me?" Alexei asked. The man sitting next to him smiled thinly, eyes shadowed by his metal hat.

"Not quite."

"What is it, then?"

"A proposition."

* * *

 **A/N: Well, it turned out a bit darker there at the beginning than I was expecting, but, hey, go with the flow, right?**


	7. Skull

**Disclaimer: I don't own Reborn.**

* * *

"Tulio, look, it's Papa!" His mother said, pointing at the screen of the television. "Look at Papa, doing those crazy things."

Young Tulio watched in fascination as his Papa performed death-defying stunts, one after the other. The people in the crowd cheered loudly as his Papa finished his routine.

Tulio turned to his mother and proclaimed, "When I grow up, I want to be just like Papa!"

His mother looked at him indulgently. "Of course you can, Tulio. Of course."

* * *

It had been five years since then, and he was now ten years old. Old enough to ride a dirtbike, anyways, and his Papa was taking him out to learn to ride as a birthday celebration. He'd gotten a cool new helmet, mostly white. It had a green visor and purple patch with an octopus, which was kind of weird but it looked cool.

He was wearing boots and an old pair of sweatpants and a long-sleeved t-shirt as well as pads on his knees and elbows, his older brother Maximo had told him that he'd crash a lot on his first day. And sure enough, he was falling and scraping his knees and elbows – or he would have, if he hadn't worn long clothes and pads.

It was nearing evening and he wasn't paying as much attention as usual, and suddenly there was a tree in front of him and _BAM!_

He sat up a minute later, holding his head. His helmet had flown off in the crash and he saw a small smear of blood on his fingers. His papa and Maximo rushed over to check on him.

"Tulio! Are you all right?" His papa called frantically. He and Maximo had gotten right next to him and were leaning over to examine his head.

"Look at that!" Maximo exclaimed. "He hit that hard, but he's only got a small scrape on his forehead! You've got a hard skull, bro!"

"Yes indeed," his father said, while checking him for other injuries. "You seem to be all right. We'd better go to the clinic though, just to make sure."

* * *

Their trip to the clinic only resulted in a bandage being taped over Tulio's scrape, which was mostly hidden by his brown hair.

"Good news," the doctor had said. "No concussion, and the only injury worth note is the abrasion on his forehead, because it's a head wound. You've got a lucky boy there."

Tulio grinned at his papa. He was all right! His father gave a sigh of relief and ushered him off of the table and out the door. When they got home his mama started fussing over him.

"Oh, my poor baby!" She said, and Tulio grimaced. "How did this happen? Papa, he's not going to ride another motorcycle until he is at least thirteen years old!"

"Well now, the doctor said he was going to be just fine. I say he should be allowed to ride a bike sooner than that."

His parents argued for another few minutes before they came to a compromise. Tulio would be allowed to ride a bike again when he turned eleven. It was better than nothing.

Monday morning Tulio got up bright and early to walk to school with Maximo and one of Maximo's friends, Ricardo. Ricardo asked about the bandage on Tulio's forehead.

"My baby brother got into a crash," Maximo boasted, "but his skull is impossible to break so he just barely got scratched. The doctor said it was really unusual."

"That's cool," Ricardo said. "You're like skull-boy or something!"

Tulio frowned. Skull-boy sounded a bit babyish. After all, he was ten, not five. But then his brother agreed. "Yeah, skull-boy."

"But Maximo, that sounds dumb," he complained.

"How about Skull then?" His brother asked, and Tulio mulled it over in his head. It didn't sound as dumb as skull-boy, and actually, it was kind of cool.

"All right," he said, and Skull became his new nickname.

* * *

Years passed, and he graduated from high school. A few years after that he graduated from college with degrees in Sports and Acting. The two were related, more than most people knew – like in a soccer game, when the players faked injury.

He got a job acting in a local theater straight out of college, going biking or practicing acrobatics with his brother in his free time. Over a couple years, he moved up the ranks in the theater, until a talent scout asked to talk with him and offered him a place as a double in a movie being produced. Tulio agreed. It could be his ticket into the big leagues.

* * *

"So, Tulio, I heard your old nickname is now a thing," Maximo said, trying to get a rise out of him.

"Yeah, it's pretty much become my stage name for any stunt jobs I get. Funny how things work out."

"Are you excited for the family reunion?" Maximo asked, a wicked grin on his face. Tulio groaned. Despite the love he had for his family, he was the youngest of the cousins, which meant he was the one most made fun of at the reunions.

"Eh, it's whatever," he replied. "We're meeting Mom and Pops first, though, right?"

"Yeah," Maximo said. "After we get there, we're going to go out for lunch with them, and then we're going to drive all together out to Uncle Alessi's."

A few minutes later they greeted their parents with hugs and kisses. As usual, their mother fussed over them, and their father winked over their mother's head. Lunch was at a nice place in town, and before they knew it they beginning the four-hour drive up to Uncle Alessi's.

They'd driven for two hours, and it was to be Tulio's turn to drive next. His father was driving, his mother in front of him in the passenger's seat, and his brother beside him. He squinted out the window, looking past Maximo's face. One of the cars on the other side of the road was swerving erratically.

"Pops," he started warily, the car coming closer quickly.

"What?" His father asked, turning a bit to look at him, and in that moment there was a squealing of tires, a rush of heat and noise and pain, and a wave of purple washed over his vision and he blacked out.

* * *

 _Beep. Beep. Beep._

The noise was familiar to him – he'd been in the hospital a couple times, after a stunt gone wrong. This time, though, it was different. This time he didn't know what had happened. This time he had been with his family, not on the job.

He opened his eyes slowly. The light was dim, and made it easier for his eyes to adjust. He turned his head to the left and right. He was alone in the room.

 _Beep-beep-beep-beep._

His heart rate rose. Where was Maximo? His mother, his father? Were they all right? The door opened. It was a nurse.

"Mr. Romano, good morning."

"How long have I been out? Where's my brother, my parents?" He croaked, throat dry.

The nurse looked a little flustered. "You've been unconscious for two weeks, Mr. Romano. As for your brother and parents – I'm not sure."

A few minutes later, a doctor walked in with a policeman. Both looked grave, the policeman apologetic.

"I'm sorry to tell you this, Mr. Romano," the policeman said. "In the accident, the other passengers all suffered fatal wounds. You were the only one to survive."

"And frankly, you _should_ have died," the doctor added. "It's a miracle that you're still alive. We had to put you in a coma in order for you to recover properly."

Skull closed his eyes and went limp. His family was dead. Maximo, his Mom, his Pops – he wouldn't see them again. A tear slipped down his face, uncomfortably slowly. He raised his hand to wipe it away. It was hard; his body was weak.

He heard the nurse and the policeman leave, the respective taps and clumps of their footsteps fading away. He opened his eyes again and saw the doctor sit down in the chair by his bed.

"I know what you're feeling right now," he said. "The same thing happened to me, in a sense. My family and I were going to go to a fair together. I was just a child then, and I got the flu from a classmate two days before the scheduled trip. They wanted to wait for me, but I told them to go – my little brother had been so excited, and it was the second-to-last day that the fair would be on. I turned on the TV when they left, and fell asleep halfway into the show I'd been watching. I woke up three hours later to loud knocks on the door. It was the police. You can guess what they told me," the doctor said with a sad smile.

Tulio rested his forearm over his face, blocking his eyes from the doctor's view. He was still pretty sure that the doctor saw the tears still coursing down his face, and see the irregularity of his breathing, but he didn't care.

"You must have a great purpose," the doctor said. "To survive that – when we got you in here, you had multiple fractures, one of which was a compound fracture of your femur. You also had a concussion, warranting the coma, but that's not where the miracle played in. A compound fracture of the femur means a massive loss of blood. You should have bled out in minutes, but somehow you survived. It was an impossibility. Someone up there wanted to keep you alive, because you were destined for something."

Tulio listened with growing incredulity. "And what would that be?" He asked hoarsely. "Why did I survive, when the rest of my family died?"

"I don't know," the doctor said, "You'll have to find that out by yourself."

And Tulio was left alone with his thoughts.

* * *

It took him six months to fully recover - ' _Another miracle!_ ' the doctor proclaimed – and he went back to work. His friends and co-workers all greeted him happily, even throwing him a welcome-back party.

"It's like you're immortal," one of them said, slightly buzzed. "The Immortal Skull." Tulio grimaced. That was just cheesy. And why was it such a great thing? He'd managed to survive, but his family had not. There wasn't anything cool or good about it. Unfortunately for him, it was also quite popular, spreading around the room like wildfire.

"Cheers to the Immortal Skull, our death-defying buddy!" A guy proclaimed loudly, and Tulio gave a fake smile and excused himself. He walked back to his home, a scant mile and a half from his workplace, and walked into his apartment's garage. He pulled a cover off of an old motorcycle and sat down on the asphalt beside it. It was a thing of beauty – light, sleek lines, knobby tires, compact engine – it had been his father's.

He looked at it, and he knew – he was going to do it.

* * *

 _"Next up, the rookie 'The Immortal Skull'! We don't know much about him, but with a name like that he's gotta be good!"_

Skull took a deep breath, heart racing. This would be his first motocross event and he was determined to do well. He had been training for a couple years now, around his job, and his teacher had told him he had been the most talented and hardworking students he'd ever had the pleasure to teach.

He went out, a striking figure in his purple and black suit. He took off his helmet, a slightly larger replica of the one his pops had gifted him, and waved to the crowd, bright purple hair – he'd dyed it – blazing. He saw his face projected on the big screens around the course – bandages on his cheeks and forehead, the chain going from his ear to his lip, the stud under his mouth, the purple teardrop under his eye. All of it now made up who he was as the Immortal Skull.

He replaced his helmet, and his event started. The world blurred around him, and he flew.

* * *

 _"And what an amazing run by the rookie! I dare say we'll be happy to see more of Skull in the future, what do you say?"_

The crowd roared, and Tulio smiled, adrenaline still racing through his body.

"Hey, kid," one of the officiators said. Tulio pointed at himself, as if to say _who, me?_ because he was twenty-four, not a teenager, and the man nodded. "Yeah. You with the purple."

Tulio chuckled. The purple was a new thing for him – ever since the accident, he'd been seeing purple everywhere. There was even one time he swore he saw purple fire coming out of his hands after The Accident and a couple times after minor crashes during practice. He didn't know what it was for, or what it could do, but it was there, and it was probably what had saved him, so he accepted it. Everyone else thought he just went overboard.

"I got a job opening," the man said. "One of my performers just retired, and I need new talent. You look like you've got it."

"You've gotta be kidding!" He exclaimed. "That was my first run! I've not really done much professional work in this capacity before..."

"Doesn't matter," the old man said, cutting him off. "You got talent, and from what I've seen of you your technique is impeccable. Now, I'm offering you a job. Are you going to take it?"

Tulio hesitated a minute. "Give me the details, and then I'll decide."

* * *

He accepted.

* * *

It only took a year for him to be competing on the national level and a couple months after that to be named the top stunt racer in the world.

At one of his larger races, he was approached by a man in a checker-themed getup. Tulio had seen stranger.

"Hello, Immortal Skull. Please, can we talk?"

* * *

 **A/N: This was actually the first chapter I had written. But then I was like, 'I wonder what all the others' backstories are like?' So I wrote them.**

 **Also, for all you Colonello fans, I am in the process of writing a chapter for him, so don't worry.**


	8. Colonello

**Disclaimer: I don't own Reborn.**

* * *

"Ack, it's choking me!" Colonello said dramatically. "Mom, save me!"

"Colonello, no whining," she answered sternly. "The tie looks nice. And tuck your shirt in."

"The tie isn't tight enough to choke you, son," his dad said. It seemed as if his acting was useless.

"But why do I gotta dress up?"

"It's a party, dear, you need to look your best."

"Uugh," Colonello groaned, letting his chin drop onto his chest and letting his arms fall limply. His father opened the front door for his mother, and he followed, trudging out slowly to their car.

It took a long time to get there. It was at _least_ an hour, by his estimate. There was no way it was shorter than that, or he wouldn't have gotten so bored. It was finally less boring when his dad turned off the freeway; that meant they had to be close!

After only a few more blocks, Colonello noticed that there were lots of cars lined up on the sides of the street. That meant the part-thing was on the street they were on!

His dad drove to the end of the street, looking for a parking spot - there was one at the very end and the car stopped.

Colonello opened to door and jumped out, stretching his arms above his head. It felt so good to be out of that car!

"Colonello," his dad called. He turned, dropping his arms back down.

"Yeah, Dad?"

"A gentleman always opens the door for a lady," he said, opening the passenger door.

"Okay, Dad," he said. He really wanted to get to the place already - what if there were other boys there? That would be much more fun than sitting around talking.

He could barely hold himself to a walk - but he didn't know what house it was, so he opted to walk behind his parents. Besides, wasn't it rude or something to go running around when you first met someone? Especially adults? And if he was polite, it would make his dad happy, which was always a good thing.

"Can I knock, Dad?" He asked. You didn't have to be polite when you knocked, you could do it as loud as you wanted. His dad gave him a funny smile.

"Sure, go ahead." So he knocked five times, as hard as he could. And then waited for the door to open. It was only a few moments later that it opened. The man who opened the door wasn't what Colonello was expecting. For one, he wasn't tall, like his dad. He was almost... short. And his hair was a weird dark blue, the complete opposite of his and his dad's bright blonde. When his dad had said 'an old war buddy', Colonello had pictured someone a lot more impressive looking - like his dad.

But when he glanced at his Dad, he was grinning! And went and _hugged_ the man. That was weird.

"Daniel! Nice to see you again!" His Dad exclaimed. "You remember my wife, Maria, and this is my son, Colonello."

"Lovely to see you again, Maria, and Colonello - you've really grown since I saw you last."

He'd met the man before? He didn't remember it, so he supposed he must have been just a baby.

"It's nice to meet you, sir," he said after catching a quick glance from his father.

"And you're so polite! Where are _my_ manners - please, come in!"

Colonello noticed that his parents were busy talking to the other man, Mr. Mirch, he remembered - so he drifted away and started looking for other kids. There were lots of other people, so he didn't think either Mr. Mirch or his parents would mind.

First he looked for wherever the food was coming from, because that one lady had a small plate with what looked like a brownie on it, and it looked delicious. He really wanted one; being so bored for so long had made him hungry.

He wandered through what was a sitting room or something - that was what his Mom would have called it - and then into the hallway. The next door on the right was open, so he looked in it. The kitchen! And there was food!

There weren't any brownies. They must ask have been eaten already, how sad. There were cookies, though. One plate of them smelled like peanut butter - not that one, then, he didn't feel like having a reaction, thanks. There was a chocolate cookies with white-chocolate chips and a regular chocolate chip, though, so he grabbed one of each.

He turned to go wander again and nearly bumped into two other boys. _Score!_

"Hi!" He said happily.

The two boys looked at each other, then back at him. Uh oh.

"How old are you, kid?" One of them asked.

"I'm ten," he answered slowly, way of the direction the conversation was going.

"Head that? He's only ten. Still a baby. Go away, kid," the other boy said.

He didn't like them. At all. Had done nothing but say hi and they'd done nothing but make fun of him. And they couldn't be more than thirteen or fourteen themselves! He'd just go find some nicer kids.

So he took a huge bite of his cookie and walked around them, not saying anything, only to nearly walk into someone else. Except this time, it was a girl.

"That wasn't very nice," she said, frowning.

"Sorry," Colonello said. "I'll watch where I'm going next time - "

She huffed. "Not you, them." She scowled at the two boys. "You should apologize."

Colonello stared at her; didn't she know talking to older kids like that would just get her in trouble? Either they'd beat her up or tell her parents that she was being immature and rude (in the most mature voices that they could manage).

Well, maybe not. Her hair - short for a girl - and her skin tone matched Mr. Mirch's, which meant that she was probably her dad. In that case, it was more likely that they would get in trouble later. Even if they did get the girl in trouble, they would embarrass their parents, which meant that they would also get in trouble - unless they actually chose to apologize.

Which, of course, they didn't.

"Another shorty, huh? How old are _you_ then?"

"Eleven," came the curt reply.

"Aw, a little baby girl defending a little baby boy! How cute~"

Colonello glanced back at the girl. She looked absolutely livid, and the alarm bells in his head started ringing. He relaxed when she took a deep breath and forced a smile. It seemed as I she was under instruction to be polite, too.

And then she walked up to the boy and socked him in the nose.

And Colonello decided he was in love.

The room was frozen for a second - Colonello silently gave thanks that it was only the four of them in the kitchen - but then the girl pulled back and ran out of the room, catching his sleeve and pulling him out as well.

She opened a new door a bit further down the hallway and shoved him in, entering and pulling the door closed quickly but quietly.

"That was - "

"Ssh!" She hissed, and he shut up. A second later, two sets of footsteps passed just outside the door.

He waited a other moment before whispering, "That was pretty awesome, up know."

She smiled crookedly. "It felt pretty good."

"Er, what's your name?" He asked. "I'm Colonello, by the way."

"Lal Mirch," she said, and Colonello nodded. He'd been right about Mr. Mirch being her dad.

Unfortunately (or fortunately, depending on how he looked at it), he and Lal would be stuck in the closet, at least until the older boys moved from a different part of the house.

"Want a cookie?" He'd only taken a bit out of the chocolate one, and as long as they were stuck there together he might as well offer the other to her.

"Sure," she said, and took it.

* * *

Boot camp was absolute torture. He didn't think he'd ever been so sore. Sure, there had been a couple of soccer practices when training for nationals that had been pretty rough, but it hadn't even been close to the level of boot camp. And now it was time for a class training session.

"Please welcome your new instructor, Lal Mirch."

What.

"You will address her by rank or as Instructor Mirch."

She walked in and he almost choked. It _was_ her, and just...wow.

The cadet next to him, Tomaso, laughed quietly. Colonello didn't blame him; his reaction was a bit extreme for someone who had supposedly hadn't met her yet.

But still. She'd grown out her hair a bit, so instead of being a shaggy mess that ended at her collar it was neatly trimmed and just brushed her shoulders. Too bad the uniform had full-length pant legs and sleeves.

"Alright, cadets. Listen up - "

Her voice was different, too. It wasn't so childishly high, but that was a part of growing up, wasn't it? And the rhythm, the cadence of it was different too. He wondered absently if it was just because she was in teaching mode.

He spent the entire lesson studying her, trying to seem what matched with what he remembered and what was different.

When the class was finally over, Tomaso nudged him.

"She's a looker, isn't she? But from what I've heard, you haven't got a chance."

"That's where you're wrong," Colonello answered determinedly. "I met her when we were kids. She punched a kid in the face for making fun of me."

Tomaso made an impressed face. "How did it go from there?"

"Well," Colonello said, remembering, "I gave her a cookie, and then I went home, and them we moved, so...it didn't?"

"You're telling me you haven't talked to this girl in what, a decade?" Incredulity was written all over Tomaso's face.

"...Yeah, pretty much."

"Well, good luck."

"Thanks! I'll tell you how it goes!" A movement out of the corner of his eye caught his attention; Lal was leaving the classroom.

"Instructor Mirch!" He called. She turned and slowed, waiting for him to catch up.

"What can I help you with, Cadet...?"

"Marchetti. Colonello Marchetti. Just wanted to say hi, we haven't see each other in forever," he said with a friendly smile. She looked uncomfortable.

"I'm sorry, I don't...I don't remember meeting you..."

"We met at a party-thing at your house, when I was ten-ish? You were probably eleven - you punched a kid in the face?"

Her face cleared. "I remember that! I got in so much trouble...you were the boy with the cookie, right? Huh...I didn't recognize you, you've changed a lot."

He chuckled. "Yeah, I'm about two feet taller, for one...anyway, I've gotta get going now. See you around?"

"Sure, I guess. I am an instructor, after all."

"Right, right. Well, bye."

"Bye."

Colonello turned after one last parting grin and walked back to Tomaso, a smug smile on his face.

"She totally remembers me," he announced as soon as he was within earshot. "You know what that means? I have a chance!"

Tomaso looked impressed. "You sure do. I think that's the first time I've ever seen her smile."

"Just you wait," Colonello said. I'm going to win her over."

* * *

 **A/N: Wow! My first completed multi-chapter story! Hope you all liked it.**


End file.
